


Porphyric Hemophilia: Cursed

by Jenwryn



Category: The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Angst, F/M, Vampirism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-15
Updated: 2007-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This thief has an inconvenient past. And an inconvenient disease.</p><p>Set during the main Oblivion quest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Porphyric Hemophilia: Cursed

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to my brother, [MalagBaal](http://www.fanfiction.net/~MalagBaal), for getting me hooked on this game in the first place!
> 
> Unbeta'd.

Oh, for the love of all that's good and holy, not_ now..._

Ishla pressed a small hand against her eyes as early morning crept across Cyrodiil. The moment the first, tentative rays of sun started to trickle over the horizon, dribbling down through hill and dale, she felt the familiar red itch digs its nails into the base of her skull. Oh, gods, not right _now._ She mumbled some choice words in Breton and shimmied back into the cool, concealing shadows of the doorway, pressing her back hard against the cold stone of the ancient church. She felt sacrilegious by just being near the building but she knew that, sooner rather than later, the sun would be full and hot and intolerable and she would be forced to seek sanctuary within its sacred walls, or those of the Priory.

 

Sanctuary? Ha, the gods did not offer sanctuary to one such as her, no more than men or any other race did. She was cursed on too many levels. Thief, assassin, half-breed Breton scum, and now—  
  
Ishla moved her hand a little, cupping it against her forehead like the visor of a helmet, and peered across the path, with its grass fringe and smattering of wildflowers, that separated her from the walls of the main building of Weynon Priory. Jauffre, Grandmaster of the Blades, the man she had travelled so long and hard to find, was supposed to reside inside those walls. So they said. Reaching her other hand inside the light folds of her black cloak, Ishla felt the amulet hanging heavily where it was concealed inside an inner pocket. Damn that bastard Baurus, that beautiful, sweet-talking swine, it had all been his fault, right from the start. _'I have to protect the Emperor's body'_, yeah, of course he did. He had forever been the one with a smooth excuse – all the more infuriating because they were always so perfectly justified – whenever something unpleasant came up. Oh, he was a hero, no denying that. But he was also a shifter of responsibility. And everything that had ever gone wrong in Ishla’s life had gone wrong because of him: it had been his fault that she'd been in that damned dungeon in the first place, his fault that she'd even met the Emperor and ended up on this godsforsaken quest, his fault that―  
  
Guh. Ishla winced as the sunlight grew brighter. She pushed angrily at the amulet beneath her cloak, made it swing in undulation against the dark leather of her clothes with a dull thudding sound. She would be glad to see the thing in someone else's hands, would be glad to be free of the problems it brought, and would be glad – she hoped – to never hear the name Jauffre again in all her days. He hadn't been the easiest man to reach. There was a lot of countryside between the Priory and the Imperial City. A lot of wolves and bears and unpleasant―  
  
Ishal was having trouble concentrating. The red itch grew more persistent, squeezing her skull in against her brains. Gods, why _now_? She had obviously miscalculated, seeing as how she had thought – she had hoped – that she had another day left, or two. To make matters even worse, she knew, without having to look, that the precious vials she had stolen from Vincente Valtieri in Cheydinhal were already empty. Nothing could save her now, nothing but her own perversion. A wave of dizziness washed across her, a symptom that had become disturbingly familiar in the last few weeks, and she hugged tighter against the cool stone, the bow and quiver of arrows on her back pressing painfully now between her shoulder blades. Oh, gods, why had she stood here like an idiot, thinking about Baurus and bloody bygones, letting the sun rise inorexibly above her? She couldn't go to Jauffre now, not like this. Couldn't even cross that small distance between the church and his home. What an idiot she was. It would have to wait until nightfall. Godsdammit.  
  
Ishla pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, hiding her straw-coloured hair with its intricate braids, and then tugged the cloth down further over her face to conceal her eyes in its dark shadows, knowing full well what the sight of them marked her as. Then, with a sigh, she turned, fine knives clinking at her slender hips, and pushed open the heavy door to the church with a shake of the head. If she were lucky, the gods would smile upon her for once and it would be empty, barren as a spinster’s womb.  
  
If she were even luckier, the Unholy Matron would be on her side, and she would come upon someone sleeping.  
  
Ishla preferred them to be asleep.  
  
She didn’t like to feed when they watched her.  
  
_Damn_ Baurus. She loved him with all her heart, but her hate was greater. Had it been up to her she would have ignored the Emperor, dumped his precious stupid amulet and run – she was no patriot – but she never had been capable of ignoring Baurus. One day, damn the man, she would bleed him near dry for having set her on this path that led to her disease, her curse. One day, she would make him as cursed as she was. What a kiss of blood and teeth and half-death and lust and hate that would be.  
  
They could be vampires together.


End file.
